


The Mysteries of Paris

by oneiriad



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 11:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: Once upon a time there were three boy detectives - but as they grew up, they grew apart. Until one day they each received a ticket to Paris from a mysterious benefactor...





	The Mysteries of Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geri_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geri_chan/gifts).



> Author's note: I should mention that I am not familiar with the German books of this series. This fic only draws on the old US books.

Bob had admittedly been daydreaming when his boss walked up to his desk. In his defence, well – the summer was starting to get properly going, and besides, all but the tardiest of students had returned their loans by now and set forth into the world. Which left Bob and those of his colleagues not yet off on their holidays with little more than a few diligent summer course students and the odd local researcher for company at the university library.

Well – and the as-yet-not-too-impressive piles of new materials to be catalogued in time for the university's expected resurrection come fall. They'd grow to proper piles as the fall semester started looming, no doubt.

”Mr. Andrews?”

”Yes, Ms. Torreano?” He straightened and tried to pretend that the cursor on the computer screen hadn't been blinking accusingly somewhere halfway through an ISBN for the last fifteen minutes.

”I thought I'd made my position clear on having personal mail sent to the library,” and she placed an envelope on top of the book he'd supposedly been cataloguing.

”Yes, Ma'am. Won't happen again, Ma'am,” Bob nodded, slipping back into habits formed many years ago in a junkyard half a country away: When in doubt, agree and do as you're told by the firm woman in charge of things.

After Ms. Torreano had left, he picked up the envelope and frowned. It was definitely addressed to him, though not in any handwriting he was familiar with. He reached for his letter opener and quickly opened it.

Inside there were two things, both of them apparently tickets. The first seemed to be some form of theater ticket, though most of the parts that should have held informative text was covered in generic bits of lorem ipsum. Only the title of the play was intelligeble: Don Juan Triumphant.

The second thing was a plane ticket in his name. To Paris. In a week. With the Concorde from New York.

He stared at that ticket for about five minutes.

He checked the envelope again, looking for clues about who might have sent him such an expensive ticket. No return address, a local post stamp, no notes hiding in the envelope as far as he could tell. He experimentally held the envelope close to the light bulb of his desk lamp for a few minutes, but no secret writing was unveiled.

A few more minutes was spent contemplating the ticket, then he got up and went down to the library proper to find a phone book. Clearly, the first thing to do was to confirm that the ticket was real and not some strange sort of prank. Once he'd done that, well – it was a mystery.

Quite frankly, Bob's life had been rather devoid of mysteries and adventures for the last few years. Perhaps he missed them.

**? ? ?**

The Greyhound bus had managed to break down about two thirds of the way to New York, he'd spent far too many hours with an otherwise lovely drag queen snoring when she wasn't drooling on his shoulder, and the only good thing about the cheap NY hotel that he'd spent the night before the day of his flight in was that it wasn't just a bench on the street.

But he'd made it.

JFK was noisy and crowded, and the man behind the check-in counter spent an impressive amount of time glaring at his ticket as if it had personally offended him somehow before finally allowing Bob into the hallowed halls.

Being fairly early, he had time to get himself a quick lunch before the boarding call started.

At the gate his boarding pass was once more thoroughly inspected, as if Bob didn't quite fit the sort of person who'd normally be expected to be boarding the Concorde, which – well. If he had had to pay the ticket himself, he wouldn't have been.

Eventually he was allowed on board and a smiling stewardess directed him back towards the middle of the plane, informing him after a glance at his ticket that he had a window seat to look forward to.

As he gradually made his way back, pausing as other people found their seats along the way, he spotted a tall man sitting in what he accurate guessed was the aisle seat. He didn't recognize him until he looked up when Bob stopped by the seat.

”Pete? Pete Crenshaw?”

”Bob? Is that you? Wait – so it was you that sent me that ticket!”

”No. No, I didn't. I wouldn't even have known where to send it to – and besides, somebody sent me a ticket, and for a moment, I thought it might have been you.”

”Not me.” Pete shook his head and stood to let Bob get to his seat when an older businessman-looking type made an impatient noise behind them. ”I wouldn't have known where to send it to either. Well, Mom did mention something about still getting Christmas cards from you, so I suppose I could have figured it out, but... Where do you live these days, anyway?”

”Ann Arbor. I work at the University of Michigan.”

”Cool,” Pete smiled. ”So you got that degree you spent most of our senior year babbling about, then?”

”I never babbled,” Bob sniffed. ”But yeah. And you? Last I heard you were going to do some work for your father after...”

”After that jerk ran straight into my knee and ruined my scholarship for me in second year of college, yeah.” Pete didn't look too upset about Bob reminding him. ”Dad got me in touch with some stuntmen he knew. I'm in Vancouver these days, working as a stunt coordinator on some of those ridiculous action shows full of swordfights. I even got to play a villain for one episode. Ol' Jupe better watch out, or I'll outshine his movie stardom any day now.”

”Speaking of Jupiter,” Bob frowned, ”do you think that he might...”

That's as far as he got, because that's when a familiar-looking man stopped next to them and put his bag down on the aisle seat across from them.

”Pete. Bob. Seeing the two of you here, I deduce that you've also received a ticket for the Concorde from an anonymous benefactor.”

”Jupe!”

Pete's enthusiastic hug was shortlived as the passengers heading for seats further back had precious little patience for a random reunion of old friends.

”Say,” Bob said once Jupiter had stowed his bag and was tightening his seatbelt, ”both of you've mentioned the plane tickets. Did you not get a weird theater ticket as well?”

”Not me.” Pete shook his head. ”Though there was a note along with the ticket, saying something about the Kingdom of the Heart in French. Some of the guys at work speak French, so they translated it for me. Weird, huh?”

”Most peculiar,” Jupiter agreed. ”I myself received a note with a string of numbers and letters as well as the word 'Nadir'”

”Weird,” Pete commented. ”Well – I suppose it's a bit like old days, isn't it. The three of us and something weird afoot. At least it's not some sort of screaming clock this time.”

”Or burning footprints,” Bob nodded. ”Do either of you have any idea what we're going to find in Paris?”

”Isn't it obvious?” Jupiter grinned. ”A mystery. What else?”

**? ? ?**

Charles de Gaulle was no less noisy and crowded than JFK, and on top of that half the baggage handlers were apparently on strike, so it took forever until the three men's luggage finally came trundling towards them. While they waited, they took turns sharing amusing stories from the years since last they'd seen one another. That is to say, Pete and Jupiter were one-upping one another, with Pete describing outrageous stunts and Jupe sharing bits of his cases as one of the youngest detectives with the LAPD, and Bob found himself feeling a bit left out.

After all, the life of a humble university librarian was not exactly what anybody would call adventurous.

Eventually, he asked if either of the other two had considered booking a hotel.

”No,” Jupiter answered. ”I suspect whoever our mysterious benefactor is, he or she will have planned something for us.”

As they exited the baggage claim and headed out, they passed through the area where guides, private chaffeurs and anxious family members were waiting. Among them was a short man dressed in some sort of fairly smart uniform, holding up a sign.

Bob Andrews, it said.

Pete Crenshaw, it said.

Jupiter Jones, it said.

”I guess that's our ride. You were right, Jupe,” and Pete headed towards the guy.

**? ? ?**

If they'd been hoping for answers, they were soon disabused of that notion. As it turned out, their driver was all smiles and polite _Monsieur_ s and _S'il vous plaît_ s, but he didn't seem to speak any English whatsoever. The man picked up Bob's and Jupiter's suitcases and led them outside.

A Rolls Royce was waiting for them.

It wasn't gold-plated, but apart from that and the French plates, it was the spitting image of the car that Jupiter had won the use of back when they were kids.

”Curiouser and curiouser,” Bob remarked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Less than a – fairly harrowing and possibly not entirely in accordance with the traffic laws – hour later they found themselves in front of what appeared to be a quite respectable hotel in the 6th Arrondissement. The hotel clerk nodded as they presented themselves, and – after they had handed over their passports and filled out some paperwork – they were presented with a room key and given directions to a ramshackle elevator that Bob guessed might be from the previous century.

Before heading up, Jupiter inquired if the clerk could tell them who had made the reservation. She looked puzzled, but took a bulging ring binder down from a shelf and leafed through it for a bit, before telling them that the reservation had been made anonymously by fax and their room had been prepaid in cash delivered by a messenger the same day as the reservation had been made.

Their room was gorgeous. It was more in the manner of an apartment, three rooms with luxurious beds in each, a bathroom and a small living room, with a door leading out to a balcony facing the Seine.

Pete whistled. ”Well, somebody's been splurging.”

”Indeed. Though I wish we knew who.” Jupiter sank down into the couch, an old-fashioned monstrosity with tassels everywhere. 

”I thought that was the mystery?” Bob commented, sinking down in a matching arm chair.

”True. Well, as I see it, we have two options, gentlemen. Either we investigate those mysterious messages we were given, as they are clearly a deliberate part of whatever this game is.”

”Or?” Pete prompted after Jupiter had fallen silent.

”Or we turn our backs on this game that someone has lured us into in an attempt to draw them out. I imagine whoever arranged this is keeping an eye on us somehow, and if we stop playing along, they will lose patience soon and give themselves away.”

”Well,” Bob said, ”it's not like I've ever been to Paris before. I wouldn't mind playing the tourist for a few days.”

”I have, but all I got to see was a barge we were blowing up for work,” Pete added. ”I'm voting Plan Tourist.”

**? ? ?**

Their third day in Paris found them standing in a slow-moving line for the Catacombs. Pete was munching on a croissant from a nearby baker, while Bob and Jupiter were comparing the woes of the latest computer systems for police departments and university libraries.

Behind them was a line longer than the one in front of them, as well as two full days of playing tourist, touring the Louvre, taking the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower and managing to get lost not once, not twice, but three times in the Metro.

Possibly there had also been crêpes. Possibly.

Probably.

Finally they made their way to the end of the line, paid their tickets and descended down into the bowels of the earth. The underground path was narrow and quite dark in places, and it took some time before they reached the entrance to the actual Catacombs.

_Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort,_ it said above the entrance.

”That's funny,” Pete said and pointed up. ”That's what it said on my note. Well, no. It didn't say _mort_. It said _cœur._ ”

”This is the Kingdom of Death,” Bob read from the pamphlet he'd gotten at the entrance.

”Well, that's cheerful.” Pete shivered. ”Is it just me or is it cold down here?”

”It's just you,” Jupiter stated, which was a bare-faced lie, and they walked on.

The walls were grinning at them. Wide, toothy smiles of eternal rictus. Once you got used to it, Bob thought, it was actually quite amusing. Whoever had arranged the bones had obviously been creative types. In some places they had been placed in patterns, crosses and archs and...

”Pete? I think I found your heart.”

For a moment they just stared at the heart. It was shaped out of skulls and the one in the very middle, right where the two curves dipped and met, seemed to have been smashed at some point. Jagged edges encircled a dark hole.

”Pete? Bob? Could you take positions at either end of the tunnel and warn me if the coast isn't clear?”

It had been years, but they both obeyed the sound of the First Investigator's voice. Bob walked a bit ahead and glanced around the corner to make sure nobody was coming back towards them, while Pete took the other position. Then Jupiter quickly stepped forward, stuck his hand into the skull and just as quickly stepped away – and just as well, as Pete was signalling that people were coming.

”Did you find something?” Pete asked as they started walking forward again.

”Yes, but let's wait until we are above ground again before examining our find,” Jupiter replied.

**? ? ?**

They were sitting around a small table at a nice café, having lunch while discussing their next move.

In the middle of the table lay a key.

It was a small key. On one side was engraved the number 29, on the other the letters BNP. It seemed quite new and they all agreed that it couldn't have been left in the skull for a very long time.

”Looks like we've started playing our benefactor's game after all,” Bob stated.

”Yes, well – it has been three days and we've seen neither hide nor hair of this person. Clearly, drawing them out would be a serious waiting game and I'm sad to say I don't have enough vacation days for it.”

”Me neither,” Bob sighed and Pete nodded, agreeing with the both of them. ”So, I guess it's time to take a look at our two other clues.”

”Yes,” Jupiter said and took a piece of folded paper out of his wallet. ”Clearly we are on some sort of treasure hunt. Did you bring your – theater ticket, was it?”

”Yes it is and no I didn't. It's back at the hotel,” Bob answered and leaned forward, frowning at the message. ”That looks like some sort of coordinates.”

”Yes it does,” Jupiter agreed. ”And the word nadir is usually used in the context of heavenly bodies, so – I have an idea. Why don't the two of you go visit that library you were talking about, Bob, and I'll meet you back at the hotel later?”

Pete and Bob watched as Jupiter headed off, navigating off the tourist map the hotel had given them.

”Looks like he's on to something.”

**? ? ?**

When they came back to the hotel, Jupiter was sitting on the balcony, reading a brick of a book. Two identical bricks lay on the table inside.

”Oh good, you're back.”

”What's with the books?” Pete asked, while Bob picked one up and started leafing through it.

”First I should tell you how I spent my afternoon,” Jupiter stated. ”I went to the Paris Observatory, which, as I spotted on the map, was quite close to the Catacombs. I assumed, if my note did indeed contain directions to a stellar body of some sort, that somebody there would be able to assist me in identifying it.”

”And did they?”

”Yes. As it turns out, the coordinates were for a specific asteroid numbered 24601, commonly referred to by the name of Valjean after the famous fictional character. Seeing as how asteroids don't really have nadirs, I assume it is a reference to a plot element, a low point of some sort in the story, and if we all three...”

”Forget it,” Pete stated firmly. ”I'm not reading that again.”

”You've read it?”

”First year in college. I think Hugo got paid by the word. And I think he had a crush on the sewers – he spent something like half the book on them...”

”The sewers?” Jupiter said, perking up.

”Yeah, that Valjean guy. Running back and forth.”

”Would you say that the sewers would count as a low point?”

”At least they're underground? That's pretty low?” Bob offered, picking up the tourist guide. A couple of minutes later he went ”Aha!” and turned the book, showing the other two the page describing the official tours of the old Paris sewer system.

**? ? ?**

”So,” Bob said, placing the second key – found behind a brick in the sewer wall marked with a question mark in chalk – next to the first. To somebody not an expert in keys, they seemed identical, though Jupiter had declared that there were fine differences in the teeth of them.

”I guess that just leaves me,” and he put the strange theater ticket on the table next to the keys. ”I wouldn't get your hopes up, though. I asked the hotel clerk if she had any idea what theater might be showing ”Don Juan Triumphant”, and she very kindly explained to me that no such play or rather opera exists. It's from a book. ”The Phantom of the Opera”, to be specific.”

”Any chances either of you've already read that one?” Pete asked, only to be met by two headshakes. He sighed in defeat. ”At least it can only be shorter than the miserable brick.”

It was.

”Any ideas where we might be supposed to look for – I suppose it'll be another key, won't it?” Pete asked, closing his copy after the third chapter.

”Probably,” Jupiter said. ”I've been thinking – there seems to be a certain theme to the hiding places thus far.”

”What theme? Cold, damp and unpleasant?” Pete grumbled.

”They were underground,” Bob realized. ”Both of the keys were hidden underground.”

”Exactly. And there's another underground hiding place in this book.”

”The lake. But isn't that just fiction?” Bob frowned.

”Perhaps. But it would fit the theme so far. And looking specifically for an underground lake will certainly be easier than searching the entire opera for a tiny, easily overlooked key.”

”Agreed,” said Pete and got to his feet. ”Well, what are you waiting for? I mean, we already got the invitation, right?”

**? ? ?**

A couple of hours later they were standing around an open trap down, gazing down into a hole only lit by the flashlight kindly provided by their tour guide. A ladder disappeared in the gloom.

”It's not really a lake,” he was explaining. ”Technically, it's a reservoir – but it did inspire Gaston Leroux, when he was writing his famous novel.”

”Would it be okay if one of us climbed down and took some pictures?” Jupiter asked, playing the tourist to the hilt and waving his camera around a bit.

”Well,” and the tour guide looked hesitant for a moment. ”It's not really permitted. Safety reasons. But – listen, I need to run a short errand. I'll be back in five minutes, okay?”

”Pete?”

”Yeah, Jupe.”

Jupiter nodded towards the trap door. Pete sighed.

Bob watched as Pete disappeared down the ladder, holding a flashlight in one hand.

”Well, the guide was right,” he called back up. ”This is definitely not a lake, just a big sort of room with a lot of water.”

”Is there anything that looks like a key?” Jupiter asked.

”No keys. Wait – there is something. I think – it looks like a paper boat. Just a second, I'll try to...”

And then there was a great, big splash.

**? ? ?**

The tour guide gave them a towel and summarily kicked them out, and not even in that order.

”At least tell me you got the key,” Jupiter said, earning himself a glare from Pete.

”I got something,” he said and handed said something to Bob. It was – well, a pretty crumbled paper boat. The paper seemed strange, as if it had been treated with something to resist the water, and a string dangled from one end.

Jupiter reached out and pulled at the string.

”I suppose the other end must have been tied to the ladder, to keep the boat from drifting off,” he guessed.

”Assuming it's not just some paper boat somebody working at the Opera put down there for a laugh,” Pete grumbled, wringing the towel in order to try to get some more use out of it. The water dripped merrily along the sidewalk.

”It isn't,” Bob said and held out the uncrumbled and unfolded paper boat. A third key lay in the center.

”Excellent. Now, all we need is to figure out what these keys unlock. I propose that we...”

”Great. Fine. You go right ahead and do that,” Pete interrupted him. ”Meanwhile, I am going to go back home to the hotel and take a hot bath before I catch pneumonia. With bubbles.”

”I better go with him,” Bob said with an apologetic glance back at Jupiter and hurried to catch up with his angrily stomping friend, leaving Jupiter with the key.

**? ? ?**

Pete had not yet seen fit to return from his foamy hermitage when Jupiter arrived at the hotel carrying a bag.

”I stopped by a market and bought some bread and things. And some wine. I figured we'd all enjoy a quiet night in.”

Bob, who had been reading in his copy of ”The Phantom of the Opera” when the door opened, put it away and helped him arrange an improvised picnic on the floor. The balcony door was open, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze and Pete came out from the bathroom in nothing put a fluffy towel wrapped around him in a strategic manner.

”I'm still mad at you, you know.” But he joined them anyway after a brief sojourn to his room, and accepted his share of baguettes and cheese and sausage, wine and apples and some pain au chocolat for dessert. While they ate, they chatted about old memories and where their various relatives were these days and absolutely not about Paris.

Afterwards, Jupiter gathered the trash and stuffed it in the bag, putting it out on the balcony for the moment. Then he sat down across from his two old friends.

”I want to apologize. My life as of late has been – frustratingly without proper challenges, and I suppose that's why I got so caught up in this treasure hunt that we're on, but that's no excuse. I – I haven't seen either of you in years and you're still the best friends I've ever had and I treated you like some sort of minions, just bossing you around and dragging you everywhere. You deserve better than that and...”

”Hey, now,” Pete interrupted him. ”Yeah, you got a bit too focused on the case, but we came along of our own accord. It's not like you lured us aboard that plane or strong-armed us into going anywhere.”

”What do you mean, that your life is without proper challenges?” Bob asked, frowning. ”You're a detective. You're the most adventurous of all three of us.”

”Let's just say – for the last few years, I've been noticing some tendencies among my colleagues, which our old friend Reynolds would never have tolerated among his men. Alas, this has led me to be sidelined at work. I've mostly been getting the less challenging work, and while this has given me time to tinker with some small inventions of mine, that still leaves so much of my brain unused. It's frustrating.”

”Yeah, that's sounds just like old Jupe,” Pete nodded. ”You never could abide boredom.”

”No. No, I couldn't. Still, I was managing – considering asking for a transfer, though Uncle Titus and Aunt Mathilda are getting on in years and I'd hate to move too far away from them, but – well. A couple of months ago I was visited by a man from Hollywood.”

”I thought they'd stopped coming?” Bob asked. ”Please tell me they're not planning another quiz show.”

”No, not another quiz show. At least not that. Apparently, there are plans for a remake of the Wee Rogues, and when somebody told the producer that Baby Fatso himself had grown up to be a real policeman, why – he'd absolutely insisted that he wanted me for the part of the jolly neighbourhood cop. When I turned him down flat, he even went to my boss, and I ended up getting called into his office to get yelled at over that. So, you see, when that ticket arrived at my desk at work, it was a nice escape. And then you were both on the plane and there was a mystery and it was just like old days...”

He paused for a while, closing his eyes.

”And I got too focused on the mystery. And I apologize. I – if you want, we can forget this entire thing. Spend however many days we have this room just being three friends in Paris.”

Bob looked at Pete. Pete quirked an eyebrow.

”We could do that,” Pete agreed. ”We could go to EuroDisney and get matching Mickey ears and feel nostalgic about America. Or....” 

”Or?”

”Or you could tell us what you've figured out about those keys. Where are they anyway?” Bob asked.

”Back with the bank they came from,” Jupiter answered, opening his eyes again. ”I figured they had to be keys to something, and my best guesses were either a safety deposit box at some bank or a box at a transport hub, like a train station. So I went into a bank and asked if they looked familiar to them.”

”Which they did?”

”Yes. Apparently, BNP stands for Banque Nationale de Paris, an old and highly respected institution. I went to their headquarter and they let me into a small room and brought out a box with three keyholes.”

”Now don't keep us waiting,” Pete said. ”What was in it.”

”Just this,” and Jupiter placed a piece of paper between them.

”More mysteries,” Pete grumbled.

”It doesn't look particularly mysterious to me,” Bob commented. ”I mean, it's just an address. Not much mystery in that.”

”True. Well – I guess that's where we'll be going tomorrow,” Pete said, rising. ”But for right now, I think it's time for me to get some sleep.”

”Pete?” and he hesitated at the door to his room, turning back to look at Jupiter. ”Thank you.”

He replied with a quick nod before closing the door behind him.

”And to you as well,” Jupiter continued, facing Bob. ”Thank you.”

”You're welcome.”

**? ? ?**

It was still morning when they found themselves standing in front of a great house dating back to the days of Haussmann.

They knocked and – after a brief parlay in pantomime with a woman who spoke no English or at least refused to admit she did – was shown to the second floor and given to understand that they were to wait there.

About five minutes later, a neat little man with frankly absurd moustache joined them. Bob guessed that he must be the owner of the very nice apartment they found themselves in.

”Bonjour,” said the man. ”I am Monsieur La Chevre. Madame Segal told me some Americans wanted to see me?”

”Yes, hello,” said Jupiter. ”My name is Jupiter Jones, and these are my...”

That's as far as he got, before he was interrupted by their host.

”Jupiter Jones?” he exclaimed. His face grew worrisomely darker. ”And I suppose these must be Monsieur Bob Andrews and Monsieur Pete Crenshaw?”

”Why, yes. How do you know our names?” Pete asked.

”How do I? How dare you! How indeed. How dare you show your faces here, you villains! How dare you!”

”Wait. Monsieur La Chevre, please calm down. I'm sorry, but we've no idea what we have done to upset you,” Bob tried.

”No idea? No idea?” the man sputtered. ”I'll show you what you've done!”

He grabbed Bob by the arm and dragged him further into the apartment, muttering angrily in French as they passed through doors. Eventually, he pushed open a door and shoved Bob forward into the room, Pete and Jupiter trailing behind.

”That's what you've done, you villains!”

The room was tastefully furnished, a clock slowly ticking away on a broad mantlepiece, and on the walls hung paintings. Well – not quite.

On the walls hung frames that had obviously at some point contained paintings. Judging by the frames – old, gilded, wooden frames – they had probably been valuable paintings.

Now they were gone. Three empty frames on either side, and a seventh frame hung above the mantlepiece and the clock. Except the final frame was not entirely empty. Something small and white-ish had been pinned to the wall.

Bob stepped closer, trying to figure out what was going on, why Monsieur La Chevre had gotten so abruptly angry – and then he realized what he was looking at.

After all, he still had one back home in his own apartment.

A tiny card, made many years ago on a printing press in a junkyard, with three question marks holding pride of place.

**? ? ?**

It took quite some time before they'd managed to calm Monsieur La Chevre down and, if not entirely convinced him that they didn't have anything to do with his missing paintings, at least they'd gotten him admit it'd be most strange if they were the thieves and had reappeared without some better plan than looking puzzled.

”Would you mind if we looked around a bit in this room?” Jupiter asked. ”Clearly, the thief must have expected us to appear, since he left that old card here.”

”Go ahead,” and Monsieur La Chevre made a gesture towards the walls. ”As you can see, there is nothing more worth stealing anyway.”

”Have the police any idea how the thieves got in?” Bob asked, but the man just snorted and turned his back on the three of them.

”Well, he's a helpful fellow, isn't he?” Pete commented.

”It doesn't matter. It's quite obvious how the thief or thieves got in.” Jupiter pointed towards a small window. ”I suspect that leads into one of the air shafts in the building. The thief will have gotten access to another apartment in the building and then made his way down through the shaft and into this room. Probably dismantling any alarm system on his way. Simple.”

”And leaving one of our old business cards behind.” Bob walked towards where the card was still pinned, then tried to reach it. Failing that, he looked around and spotted a likely-looking stool in a corner, currently upholding some overflowing sort of fern.

”That's funny,” he said as he stepped back down. ”There's something written on the back of this.”

”What?” and the other two stopped their poking around to come see.

”Go back to your beginning,” Pete read. ”Now what sort of a clue is that?!”

**? ? ?**

”But what does it mean?” Pete asked as paced back and forth in their hotel room. ”Our beginning? The junkyard in Rocky Beach?”

”I doubt it,” Jupiter said. ”If our mysteriouos host wanted us in California, he'd not have invited us to Paris. Or he would be providing us with return tickets already. No, whatever is meant, it's quite clear that the solution is somewhere here in Paris.”

”Maybe it's more biological?” Bob suggested. ”I think there's a medical museum somewhere around.”

”Possibly. Or maybe we will find the next clue in the airport. If only we knew what sort of beginning is meant. The beginning of our friendship? Of this treasure hunt? Or our detective firm? Detecting? Are we meant to go looking for Sherlock Holmes? Or Pinkerton?”

Bob jumped to his feet.

”I think I might have an idea!” he said. ”But I need to check something. Jupe, where have you been getting all those books anyway?”

”Down by the river. There's a bookshop called ”Shakespeare & Friends.”

”Great. I'll be right back, guys,” and Bob rushed out the door.

He was leafing through a somwhat worn paperback when he returned. On the front of it was some sort of black bird.

”Aha!” and he slammed the book down on the tiny table, holding it open and pointing at the title at the top of the page.

”Well?” Pete said. ”Don't keep us in suspense. Usually it's Jupe who gets to run off and have a lightbulb moment.”

”Our beginning. Well, not ours specifically, but the beginning of detectives. It was your talk of Sherlock Holmes, Jupe, it reminded me of a student doing his Master's degree a couple of years ago in the history of popular literature, who I had to dig up all sorts of old mystery novels for. He was writing about the history of the murder mystery, and – well. This was one of the books. Short stories in this case.”

He stabbed at the page with his finger.

”The Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Edgar Allan Poe. Commonly held to be the first detective story ever – long before Sherlock Holmes was a glimmer in Conan Doyle's eye.Or Pinkerton founded his agency for that matter. And it's set right here, in Paris.”

”Of course,” Jupiter exclaimed. ”Dupin as the beginning of private investigators. That fits perfectly.”

”So, guess we'll need to find the Rue Morgue. Simple,” Pete said.

Only, as it turned out, it was not simple at all.

**? ? ?**

They'd been walking up and down the streets in the area around the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch for what felt like hours, and all they'd gotten for their troubles were sore feet. They'd looked at every street sign, asked taxi drivers and mail carriers and the occasional not-quite-lost tourist, and yet nowhere was a Rue Morgue to be found.

”I can take you to _a_ morgue, Monsieur,” a taxi driver had offered, feeling particularly helpful, but Jupiter had just thanked the man and returned to his friends, shaking his head once more.

”Maybe we're going about this the wrong way?” he started, looking cautiously at Bob.

Bob sighed.

”You don't have to beat around the bush, Jupe. Just say it. There's no Rue Morgue and clearly I was wrong. It just seemed so obvious. I mean, clearly our thief likes fiction set in Paris.”

”Well,” Pete drawled behind them. ”There might not be a real Rue Morgue, but maybe we should try there before we give up?”

They turned to find him pointing at a line of posters covering one of the walls of the narrow street they were in. Three dark and gloomy Parisian cityscapes were repeated a few times, while above and below them were the words ”Musée d'Orsay” and ”Edgar Allan Poe”.

**? ? ?**

After a nice lunch, the three friends made their way to the Musée d'Orsay and spent nearly an hour patiently waiting in line before getting to buy tickets for the museum and its temporary exhibit about ”The Parisian Vision of Edgar Allan Poe”. It was a fairly nice exhibit – if you were inclined to sinister and grotesque paintings, at least. Red and black were the most prominent colours.

They strolled along, studying the various impressionist and expressionist paintings and the small framed passages accompanying them, lifted from Edgar Allan Poe's stories. Eventually, they found themselves in front a fairly large painting. It showed a narrow alleyway done in oils, shadows and gloom lurking as the tops of the walls leaned close enough together to almost touch.

_The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch_ , said the accompanying text. Underneath was the name of a painter and a generic sounding title.

”So. Guess we found Rue Morgue,” Pete said. ”Do we look behind it?”

”Only if you want the museum guards to kick us out or call the police,” Bob answered.

”Oh, right.”

”I doubt we'll need to go looking for any more clues,” Jupiter said. ”I think we've come to the end of it. Isn't that right, Mr. Huganay?”

He turned around, Pete and Bob whirling in surprise.

”You are entirely correct, Jupiter,” Mr. Huganay answered and bowed. His hair had gained silver stripes since last they saw him and he was leaning on a fine mahogany cane topped with a snarling silver animal head of some sort, but apart from that he was still the debonair art thief the three of them had met back when they were mere boys.

He was smiling.

”Mr. Huganay,” Bob exclaimed, then frowned and glared at Jupiter. ”You knew! How long have you known?!”

”I always considered it a possibility. After all, I do not known that many French people. But it was not until we learned that this whole thing was about stolen paintings that I grew certain.”

”So, it was you who stole Monsieur La Chevre's paintings?” Pete asked.

”Now, now, Pete. A gentleman thief never tells. Surely you know that much?”

”Fine, have it your way. I'm not some scared kid in a cemetery anymore and I don't see any goons around. I bet we can keep you here until the Paris police shows up, then they can get you to talk.”

”About what?”

”About the paintings you stole!”

”They were never reported stolen, were they?” Jupiter asked and Huganay's smile widened.

Pete looked a question.

”Didn't you notice how La Chevre reacted when you mentioned the police? For that matter, when we showed up and he still thought we were the thieves – at no point did he as much as attempt to call for the police himself.”

”That is pretty strange, come to think of it,” Bob agreed. ”But why wouldn't he have reported his paintings stolen. The way he acted, they must have been quite valuable.”

”Oh, absolutely;” Mr. Huganay agreed. ”Would you like to see them?”

He started walking towards the far end of the exhibit hall, where a part of it had been sectioned off and a sign told visitors that a new exhibit was in the works. He shared a brief nod with the museum guard standing a few feet away, then walked past the sign, gesturing for them to follow.

The paintings were arranged in a wide semi-circle. Bob was no art historian, but even he could recognize the Van Gogh and the Monet for what they were.

”The reason, my dear boys, that Monsieur La Chevre won't be reporting any of these lovely pieces stolen, is that they were all quite illegally obtained on the black market. Why, I believe the last legal owners of these pretties lost them to the most unpleasant thieves of all back in the 40s.”

”And you did – what? Stole them from La Chevre and just gave them to the museum?”

”Don't be ridiculous, Pete. The museum is merely going to exhibit these pieces for a short while, before each will be turned over to a suitable heir of the last legal owner. Meanwhile, I – the good citizen who did my civic duty and rediscovered these lost treasures – will be the recipient of a modest finder's fee.”

”What I don't understand is this,” Bob began. ”Why this entire production? Clearly you didn't need us for any of this. The paintings were stolen before we came here, this exhibit clearly wasn't something that was just whipped up this week. So why the games? The tickets, the clues, the business card? Why _us_?”

Mr. Huganay sank down in the crescent moon shaped sofa that stood facing the paintings and gestured for them to sit next to him.

”A few months ago I found myself feeling nostalgic. My glory days are mostly behind me, sad to say – I have not been keeping up with the new technological developments in alarm systems, and I'm not as spry as a I used to be. Anyway, I was leafing through some old papers of mine when I came upon your old business card, and I got to wondering – what ever did happen to those clever Californian boys? Had they grown up to form a detective agency of their own? Or perhaps decided to take a walk on the wrong side of the law?”

”And you looked us up and found us scattered,” Jupiter finished the line of thought.

”Exactly. It seemed, well – such a waste. Very few people have ever outfoxed me, and yet you managed it more than once.”

”And now we were just living our separate lives, and the only one doing anything close to what we used to was Jupiter,” Bob finished.

”So, I decided to do my good deed of the year and give you boys an opportunity to reconnect. Of course, it was entirely possible that you had had some sort of falling out, but I was hoping that you had merely grown apart, the way life and coincidences sometimes make people do – and what better way than to give you a mystery to solve?”

”But why those clues?” Pete complained. ”All those dank tunnels and that stupid lake!”

”Why, don't you remember? I did promise to show you the French underworld.”

**? ? ?**

Back at the hotel they found three tickets to the Concorde back to New York, for a flight three days later.

”So – should we call the Paris police?” Bob suggested.

”And tell them what? The way Mr. Huganay was wandering around at Musée d'Orsay, I doubt there are any current warrants out for him.” Jupiter sighed.

”So, that's it?” Pete demanded, turning on them. ”We spend days running all over Paris and now we just – go home?”

”Unless you have a better suggestion?”

Pete shrugged and looked a bit sheepish.

”Maybe Mr. Huganay was right?”

”About what, Bob?”

”About it being a shame we've drifted apart. I mean, it's been amazing seeing both of you again, and – Jupiter, you talked about your life not really having any challenges lately. Mine haven't had any mysteries beyond the Dewey Decimal System for ages. And Pete?”

”Oh, don't look at me,” Pete protested. ”I get to choreograph swordfights and car chases.”

”And you don't miss investigating even just a tiny little bit?” Bob asked.

”Well – well, I can't just leave. I've got a contract.”

”Contracts end,” Jupiter pointed out. ”And jobs can be left. If you really want something.”

Bob started to smile, then stopped and slumped. ”Nevermind. It's not like I can just quit _my_ job and go – I don't even know what we're talking about? Start a detective agency with you guys?”

”Revive a detective agency,” Jupiter firmly stated. ”And whyever not? You haven't mentioned any significant others left back in Michigan? What's keeping you?”

”I couldn't afford to move, even if I wanted to. They don't pay university librarians that much.”

”Well, if that's the concern – I would propose that, if we were to do this, I would be willing to offer the both of you salaried positions.”

”They don't pay cops that much either,” Pete commented.

”Indeed. But I believe I've mentioned my inventions to the both of you. As it happens, I've actually been receiving quite a decent sum for a few patents, and I am quite willing to use it as starting capital for our new business.”

”So, we'd be working for you?” Bob asked.

”I would be First Investigator,” Jupiter stated. ”But first and foremost, we'd be partners. The three of us. The Three Investigators. So, what do you say?”

**? ? ?**


End file.
